


A Helping Hand

by days4daisy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Extra Treat, Hand injury, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23920894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: Thor just wants to help a buddy out of his clothes. Rocket wishes there was more to it, but yeah right. No freaking chance.
Relationships: Rocket Raccoon/Thor
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45
Collections: Id Pro Quo 2020





	A Helping Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elpollodiablo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elpollodiablo/gifts).



> Hope you have a nice IPQ! :)

Rocket is fine.

He would be _more_ fine if someone - say Quill - hadn’t been late to the rendezvous. If Rocket had his back-up, things wouldn't have gotten testy with the goons on Level 7. Rocket didn’t have his usual firearms, and the Level 7 goons decided to roast the hell out of Rocket’s hands as payback.

It was all a cover for the crew breaking out the big shit. One hell of a payload, and they got to steal from assholes to boot. Quill calls this Robin Hood-ing. Rocket would prefer less weird Earther terms and more being on time.

But whatever. They’ve got their loot, and Rocket’s got boiled hands. He’s already doing better after a quick run through the med regenerator. Rocket can at least flex the joints now. His ‘amputate the goddamn things’ panic has eased to a livable ‘this fucking sucks.’

The more acceptable level of pain means Rocket should get a good night’s sleep tonight. Wake up feeling even better. Another couple trips through the regenerator and his hands should be good as new. Or, at least, good as they were before they got torched.

Only thing is, ‘this fucking sucks’ damaged hands can’t do a whole lot. For one, Rocket has no clue how he’s supposed to get out of his clothes. It wouldn’t be the first time Rocket slept in his gear, but Rocket wants to get out of his sweaty flight suit. The sleeves still smell charred.

For another, Rocket's door is wide open because his hands are too jacked to close it.

“Need some help?” Thor asks out of nowhere. Rocket jumps double his height. Thor, for a huge god-man, is pretty good at sneaking up on people.

“Do I look like I need help?” Rocket snaps, even though yeah, that’s exactly what he looks like. “I need shut eye,” he says instead. “Sleep’s supposed to help when your hands get roasted.”

“Sleep is the cosmos’ great healer,” Thor agrees. He offers a sage nod, like this is the wisest concept he’s ever considered. It may be, who knows. Thor wears his feelings like an unlocked data pad, but it’s still hard to know what he’s thinking sometimes. Especially since everything went down with Thanos.

They’re all better, Thor included. There's no healing from the shit they went through, but Thor looks closer to ‘all there’ than he did back in New Asgard. He still drinks, but not as much. He eats whatever the crew divvies up, no more or less. He trains in the cargo bay when they’re in flight and outdoors when they’re docked. And he smiles more. Rocket doesn't notice sappy shit like that, but if Rocket _did_ notice, he’d say Thor smiles more.

Still, there are times when Thor’s around in body but definitely not in mind or spirit. Where he goes, Rocket’s not sure. Off with his dead brother. On some battlefield Rocket can’t see. Or back in that fancy palace of his with his mom and dad. Memories happen, curse of life. Sometimes a guy has to deal with them in peace.

“Yeah well,” Rocket shrugs, “guess you’ll leave me to it, huh?”

“I suppose so,” Thor agrees.

He’s cleaned himself up since they left Midgard. Thor still has a beard, but he's trimmed it. His hair sits at shoulder length, and Rocket can vouch for the fact that Thor washes it pretty often. No more greasy streaks or bird’s nest knots.

“Are you sure you don’t need help first?’ Thor asks.

There isn’t a whole lot Thor can help with unless he can cure burns. The guy can control the weather, but icing torched paws has to be beyond his expertise.

Beyond fixing the hands, Rocket has two other problems. There’s the door that needs closing. Then, there's Rocket's flight suit. Thor is as capable of assisting with the second task as he is the first, but it’s way more dangerous. Thor's hands on Rocket’s clothes...

“Shut the door on your way out?" Rocket suggests.

Thor nods. “What about your attire?”

“What about it?” Rocket snaps, which isn’t fair. It’s not Thor’s fault that Rocket has stupid thoughts in his head. “Need a few more days in the regenerator,” Rocket says. “It is what it is.”

Thor frowns. “You...intend to stay dressed like this until your hands heal?”

The disbelief is funny given what the dude was wearing when Rocket and Bruce busted in on him in New Asgard. Who knows how long it had been since the guy bathed and changed _his_ clothes.

Rocket shrugs again. “You don’t have to do all this.”

“Do all of what?” Thor asks. He has the nerve to look confused, creases forming on his forehead.

“All this,” Rocket repeats, waving a limp hand in Thor’s direction. “Treating me like cracked glass. I’m good, man. I need sleep.”

Thor nods. “We all do,” he agrees. “But why don’t I help you first? You’ll have a beast of a time trying to sleep with that on.”

If the offer was coming from anyone other than Thor, Rocket may have gone soft enough to say yes. It’s not that Rocket doesn’t buy Thor as sincere. Opposite, actually. Thor is too sincere. He just wants to help a buddy out of his clothes. Rocket wishes there was more to it, but yeah right. No freaking chance.

Oh well. Rocket’s the one stupid enough to cop feelings. He knows better, he knew back then too. But along the way to Nidavellir, Rocket just…started looking where he shouldn’t.

It was good for Rocket when he and Nebula started pulling galactic one-offs for Black Widow. Got him away from the scraps Thanos left behind of Thor. When Rocket and Bruce hit up New Asgard five years later, Rocket couldn't believe it. The spark was gone. What harm was there in inviting Thor to join their crew for awhile?

Only, Thor started getting a little better, they all did. Turns out, Thor gets under Rocket’s skin no matter what size or shape he’s in.

Rocket tries again. “I’m good, man, really.”

Thor purses his lips like his feelings are hurt. Not Rocket’s intent, but if it means Thor will leave without making things more awkward it’s for the best.

“Rabbit, you told me, remember?" Thor speaks gently. "How they made you. If you think I would care how that looks, you couldn’t be more wrong. You’re my friend.” He smiles. “Let me help you get the rest that you need. We can even,” he turns long enough to key Rocket’s door shut, “do this. There, now no one else will see.”

Thoughtful son of a bitch. Fur’s good for plenty of stuff, but especially in times like these. When Rocket gets flustered, he doesn’t have skin heat to give it away.

Rocket’s ears sink lower, and his mouth curls back in a snarl. “Fine,” he grumbles. “Be quick about it.”

Rocket’s warning must not carry the menace he intends. The smile never leaves Thor’s face.

Rocket didn’t expect Thor to bring up his lab freak history. He definitely isn’t expecting Thor to scoop him up with one hand and deposit him on top of his cot.

Rocket splutters furiously, twisting away. “Do that again, and I’ll bite your damn hand off,” he snarls. “Then who’s gonna help you take _your_ clothes off, huh?” Rocket, that’s who. If his hands weren’t so fried, he'd tear Thor’s garments to shreds.

Rocket's threat is stupid, and it doesn’t even work. Thor exchanges his small smile for a laugh. “Sorry,” Thor says. “I thought I might assist before we began the undressing. More proper, wouldn’t you agree?”

The asshole grins like he knows he's just planted the thought of his hands on Rocket’s naked body in Rocket’s brain. Thor’s hands are like safety mitts. He can cup the entire length of Rocket’s back in one palm. Pinch Rocket’s cock and rub one out of Rocket with a few easy flicks of his fingers.

This is a terrible idea. Rocket needs to get Thor the hell out of his room.

“We doing this or what?” Rocket mutters. “I don’t got all day.”

“Of course,” Thor says. “Of course. Apologies.” He kicks out of his boots, and Rocket starts to ask why. The question never gets out, because Thor kneels on the bed first. The dude is huge, and Rocket (being Rocket) has the smallest cot on the ship. The thing squeaks in protest, mattress dipping heavily. Rocket’s toes curl against the change in surface.

Even bent, Thor towers over Rocket. At this angle, his belly curves over the band of his trousers. His body looks round and soft under his shirt. Thor has started to wear better-fitting tunics that show off his thickness. Rocket wants to shove his snout in the deep groove of Thor’s chest.

Rocket swallows. He can do this. Two seconds, one zipper, and it’s done. He can _do this._

“Lie down,” Thor says.

Rocket glares. “The hell for?” he demands.

“The angle,” Thor explains, looking confused. “It will be easier, don’t you think?”

He’s right of course, but that doesn’t mean this isn’t the worst idea in the entire universe. Rocket wants to shriek at Thor to get the fuck out. He wants to blow his own hands off. He wants to forget this whole cursed day ever happened. Freaking Quill - this is all his fault. If he hadn’t been late to the goddamn rendezvous!

Scowling, Rocket inches up the cot and lies against his pillow. He faces the side wall. “Make it quick,” he grumbles. If he doesn’t look at Thor, it won’t be so bad. No stupid feelings, no wanting something he’s got no chance in hell of getting. Rocket doesn’t want to see Thor’s face, or his big hands, or his mismatched eyes.

Rocket flashes the point of a tooth when fingers pinch the zipper of his flight suit. Thor begins his descent. It’s agonizingly slow. Rocket feels his chest exposed, then his stomach.

It should be over in one fell swoop, but Thor lets go with the zipper at his waist. Before Rocket can ask what’s up, Thor’s fingers cup his shoulder. Rocket goes rigid. Thor is helping Rocket to sit up so he can remove Rocket's sleeves. He’s gentle as he eases the fabric down one skinny arm. Thor moves even slower at Rocket’s hand. He never touches the charred limb, cautious as he eases the open cuff over it.

It’s only when Thor lets go that Rocket can release the breath he’s been holding. The relief is short-lived, because Thor follows with the second sleeve. If all the bolts and screws in Rocket's chest shock Thor, he doesn't say. He's focused fully on helping Rocket out of his sleeve. Thor's tongue drags a thoughtful stripe across his lips. The sight makes Rocket’s body seize up.

“Shh,” Thor murmurs. “Almost done.”

‘Almost’ can’t arrive soon enough. Feelings flutter around in Rocket’s belly. Bad feelings. Feelings Rocket gets when he lies in bed thinking of Thor's tongue. Pictures it mussing up his fur and lapping between his thighs until Rocket no longer cares what his own name is.

What it is about the guy, Rocket has no clue. If he knew, he could find some way to sabotage it. Turn his sweet thoughts sour. Get Thor out of his brain for good.

Rocket chews the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. He squeezes his eyes shut. Starts counting down from 100. Tries to calm his sprinting heartbeat to a casual jog. It’s not working.

Thor traces a finger down Rocket’s bare chest. He catches fur and metal, and the sound wrangled out of Rocket sounds like a whimper.

“I know, Rabbit,” Thor soothes. “We’re almost done.” He pinches Rocket’s zipper again.

“Wait,” Rocket gasps out. “You don’t have to- wait, _damn it_ -”

Thor gives Rocket's zipper an easy pull, and Rocket is exposed down to his legs. Erect penis and all.

Rocket twists his head away so he doesn’t have to see whatever look is sure to come over Thor’s face. He must be so grossed out, or think Rocket's peanut-sized dick is hilarious. “Great, you’re done,” Rocket grumbles. “Get the hell out.”

He’s caught off guard when Thor’s hands find him again. Rocket writhes, snarling. “What the hell are you-”

Rocket’s voice dies when he sees Thor’s face. The same patient concern. No disgust. No laughter. “Sorry,” he says. “Almost there.”

Rocket is so stunned, he gives up his kicking and squirming. Stilled, it’s easy for Thor to maneuver his legs out of the flight suit completely. Thor actually folds the damn thing, like Rocket has ever folded one of his uniforms in his life.

When Thor finishes, he smiles. “There now, isn’t that better?”

Rocket gawks at the guy like Thor's got screws loose. With everything Thor’s been through, that’s a definite possibility.

“Uh, yeah.” Awkwardly, Rocket covers his erection with a burned hand. His body is begging for touch, but jerking off is yet another activity barbecued fingers suck at. “Got a mind of its own sometimes,” he mumbles. “Thanks for...just, thanks. I'll, uh - see you in the morning.”

“It was no trouble. Before I go, can I help with anything else?” Thor asks. At Rocket’s narrow-eyed look, Thor nods towards Rocket’s lower half.

Rocket groans in frustration. This is the last thing he needs Thor joking about. “Yeah, real funny,” he mutters. “I’m tired, man. It’ll wear itself out.”

“Of course, but I could…” Thor pinches his big-ass thumb and forefinger around Rocket’s forearm.

Bewildered, Rocket can’t stop the guy from peeling his burned hand from his cock. His erection may be small, but it’s pretty damn blatant. It sticks straight out; a proud, furless pink.

Thor stares down at him. He’s still not laughing. “I'll be quick.”

Rocket waits for a punchline that doesn’t seem to be coming. Thor’s eyes, real and fake, are still fixed on his dick. The real one looks dark and interesting. The fake one whirs in and out, like Thor can’t decide what zoom he wants for Rocket’s baby prick.

Thor rubs Rocket’s furry arm gently between his fingers. Rocket yanks away, heart thundering in his chest. Fuck, if the guy is playing he’s getting a face full of blaster as soon as Rocket can hold a rifle. “Fine,” Rocket says warily. “Make it snappy, Thunder.”

Thor’s mouth twitches. Here comes the punchline, Rocket assumes. He snarls up at Thor.

Thor’s punchline is to bow his face into Rocket’s lap. In one easy motion, he has Rocket’s whole dick in his mouth. No build up. Rocket goes from nothing to, holy shit, _everything_.

Thor’s mouth is a wet, wonderful place. He treats Rocket like a cigarette, dragging off him with a tight curl of his lips. His hair sweeps between Rocket’s thighs. Thor’s tongue winds around him, flicking him like a toy.

Rocket's burned hands are useless, but he still flails them around. It’s like Rocket is falling off a cliff with no lifeline. He never thought he’d get this, let alone all at once with no build up whatsoever.

Thor slides one of his huge-ass hands under Rocket’s body. He gives Rocket’s rear a bump, forces his lower half to bridge off the bed. Thor’s lips are on Rocket’s stomach, leaving a wet patch as he sucks merrily away. Rocket spews a curse a second. His head is spinning, and he’s throbbing all over. Forget the hands, it’s like Rocket's sliced open and every bit of blood is gushing between his legs.

Rocket forgets to breathe. Breathing is overrated anyway.

Thor lays his two mammoth hands across Rocket’s arms. Pins them to the mattress. Holds him effortlessly on his back. He’s so fucking big. His hands. His mouth. His belly sinking against the mattress. Rocket squirms under him. It’s useless, and Rocket loves it. Thor’s got him and isn’t letting up. He won’t let Rocket breathe until every bit of pent up need comes exploding out.

It bursts from him with a full-body spasm. Rocket lets out a hoarse shout, bucking against Thor’s weight. He’s outmatched, and it’s fine. Thor sucks Rocket until Rocket has nothing left to give. Slurps him dry and lets Rocket pop from his mouth. Rocket’s softening cock taps Thor’s lips, leaving them shiny and wet. Thor grins at the sensation, his tongue chasing after the touch.

“Is that better?” Thor asks. He looks up at Rocket like it’s an honest question.

“Fuck you,” Rocket breathes, stunned.

Thor smiles at the answer and presses a kiss inside Rocket’s thigh. Bled dry as Rocket is, the gesture still makes his legs tremble.

“Get some rest, my friend,” Thor says. With a final nod, he rises and reapplies his shoes. The door to Rocket’s room opens and closes with a final swish.

Rocket stares at the door for a long time after Thor leaves. In the minutes that follow, his heart refuses to slow to its natural pace.

“Holy shit,” Rocket mumbles.

He already knows he’ll be at the regenerator bright and early in the morning. Suddenly, he’s even more motivated to get his stupid hands back to normal as soon as possible.


End file.
